by Dan Stout
I could practically read the headlines now: Deadshot Cop Collars Killer He Saved Years Before
The tabloids do love alliteration. And they love their dramatic irony.
The first time I ever got my picture in the paper was for saving Flanagan’s life. It was on a gambling house raid. Flanagan and his SRT crew had done the heavy lifting while I was standing perimeter, still a crimson-clad beat cop. The SRT team came out of the building and took off their helmets, watching the paddy wagons haul off the gang members. They were laughing, still shaking off the tension of the raid when their jokes were interrupted by a cracking sound, and one of the team’s head split open. Blood splashed across the faces of the officers beside him, and for a split second the dead man kept his balance—about to share one last joke with his team—before slumping to the cobblestone street.
I shook my head, banishing old memories and focusing on Flanagan in the here and now. He had dried blood on a split lip, probably from one of the beat cops “assisting” him into the paddy wagon after his arrest. It wasn’t enough of a bump to cause problems, so I decided it wasn’t worth pursuing.
The light on the wall flashed twice, the signal for me to step out for a conference. I walked into the adjoining observation room, where Bryyh and Kravitz stood, each with their arms folded, coffees nestled up close to their chests. Kravitz had dark circles under his eyes. Working point on such a high-profile case was tough, and it wore harder on some cops than others. Not that I’d know—my career as a high-profile officer had ended the instant I killed a child. After that day I’d been hidden behind the scenes for the rest of my working life. And when the cop I’d saved turned out to be a monster, it was decided that it wouldn’t be good policy to have my name in the news again.
“What’s Flanagan saying?” asked Bryyh. “Is he lawyering up?”
I shook my head. “He’s just mumbling to himself. Unresponsive to all questions, and no request for council.” It was hard for me to keep the hatred out of my voice. There was a part of me that was disgusted that Flanagan was even alive. And of course, he should have died on that day I first met him, when his team was pinned down, a gunman advancing on them, and a rookie cop was the only one with a bead on the shooter.
“We’re charging him,” said Kravitz.
I kept my smile restrained. Gloating is unprofessional. “Okay.”
Bryyh pulled her arms tighter. “I don’t like it. It’s too soon.”
I shoved a hand through my hair, fingers circling my bald spot. “We’ve got the connection with the Squib. We got the eyes that place him on the scene. And we can put this piece of shit back where he belongs.”
“You don’t have to sell me,” she said. “It’s a done deal.”
I threw my hands in the air. “Then why do you look pissed off?”
“Not my call.” Bryyh stared at the suspect. “This is coming from up on high.”
“City Attorney’s Office,” said Kravitz.
Bryyh nodded. “And higher. I’m sure the mayor’s breathing down their necks, and the AFS contingent, as well.”
It was all about how things would play out in the press.
“They want him charged in time to have it run on the evening news, don’t they?”
Neither Bryyh nor Kravitz answered me. I waited and finally Bryyh caved.
“The press already know he’s here,” she said. “So the powers that be want to make the most of it. Maybe it’ll calm people down.”
The three of us looked through the glass at Flanagan, the man I’d once saved so that he could go on to destroy dozens of lives.
“Why’d he stay put on that Therreau ranch?” she said. “Seems like there’d be better hiding spots.”
Kravitz forced a cough, a sound both desperate and disgusted. “They were human shields.” If his grip on his coffee were any tighter he would have shattered the ceramic mug. “And if they weren’t, does it matter?”
I was surprised by how fired up he was. But he hadn’t seen Flanagan help talk down the family’s son.
“No,” I said, trying to tell myself I hadn’t seen it either. “Cap, if it bothers you that much . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “We could hold him for now. Save the murder charge for when we break apart his story or when we get details on what the techs turn up at his farm.”
Kravitz ran his hand through his beard and glared at me. A few long hairs pulled out, dark crinkled things that clung to his hand like bug antennae before dropping to the vinyl tiles beneath our feet.
“You’re not doing this.” He stepped closer so I’d have to crane my neck up to look him in the eye. Tall guys like to do that, to emphasize their height. On reflex I dropped my gaze to his collarbone, where I could track both his face and hips in my peripheral vision. I knew that my lower center of gravity would allow me to get up underneath him. Not that I’d need to—Kravitz was just frustrated and taking it out on me without thinking. But it made me feel better to know that I could drop him on his ass if needed.
“You asked to bring him in—no, you begged.” Kravitz pointed at me, coffee spilling over the edge of his mug.
Bryyh sighed, the sound alone enough to separate us. “Do it,” she said.
I walked out the door and back into the interrogation area. Flanagan looked up as I entered. For a brief moment I saw that shooter, the one with the crying infant across his chest. In my mind they both had Flanagan’s face.
“Timothy Flanagan,” I said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Garson Haberdine.”
He closed his eyes and continued praying. I took a breath and raised my voice as I recited his rights, that litany unique to cops, and my voice drowned out his prayers.
* * *
Later, when I returned to my desk, Ajax was watching the Eagle Crest security footage for the umpteenth time. He’d also coopted a nicer chair from somewhere. Twenty years on the force, and this kid was already more accepted in the department than I was.
There were lots of reasons I wasn’t the most popular detective in the Bunker. People think cops close ranks—and they’re right. We do it because we know that no one who hasn’t worn the pressed crimson uniform of the patrol knows what we face day in and day out. But even when we protect our own, that doesn’t mean we’re blind to what they’ve done. We put distance between us and them because every time we see them, we’re reminded that it could happen to us, that it could be us with a fraction of a second to decide who lives and who dies.
Everyone liked Ajax because Ajax had never shot a child to save a killer. I’d never completely escaped the cloud of the shooting, even after I was cleared by the internal investigation. And when the cop I saved turned out to be staggeringly corrupt, even by the standards of a town famous for graft and corruption . . . I just hoped I’d be able to put a little bit of my past behind me by taking Flanagan off the streets again.
My partner waved me over. “Remember that gunk in the victim’s tub?”
“The brown crust?” I took a seat in my old, uncomfortable chair.
“Lab reports it was mostly salt, with a mixture of herbs and cooking spices.”
“Like soup?” I didn’t care for the implications.
Ajax kept going, getting excited. “I’ve been looking at the traffic in and out of the hotel that day.”
He tapped the screen, frozen on the paused image of a large figure wheeling out a barrel on a dolly. The blurry freeze-frame lacked detail, and the subject’s collar was up and hat pulled low. I couldn’t even tell if it was human or Mollenkampi.
“Takes some squinting,” he said, “but you can just make out a logo on the side of the barrel. Talbot Equipment Company.”
“Great. Call them and—”
“Brine,” he said. “They delivered fifty-five gallons of brine to the hotel that day.”
“For the kitchen?”
He sat b
ack and twirled his hands, a ringmaster presenting the next act.
“It was marked for delivery to a guest,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Garson Haberdine, room 430.”
The carpet imprints in room 430 had been a curve and two straight lines pressed into the carpet. The kind of marks that a barrel on a dolly might leave.
“Let’s check it out tomorrow,” I said. “We charged Flanagan.” I didn’t say that we had a long way to go before we had a case that would stand up in court. Bryyh had said that we were moving fast to keep the politicians happy, and now we’d have to play catchup.
Ajax whistled and leaned back in his chair, but he didn’t voice his concerns. Pressure to solve a case wasn’t exclusive to the city. I was sure he’d seen plenty of the same in his hometown. More of it was surely in his Path if he stayed on as a detective.
“So now what?” One mandible pulled away from his jawline and snapped back, tapping a rhythm on his tusks and toothy ridges.
The way things had gone down felt wrong, but Flanagan belonged behind bars. For once I wanted to not look that gift horse in the mouth. For once I wanted to savor a victory, even if it meant drowning the bitter taste in the back of my mouth with a tall glass of cheap liquor.
“Now we let someone buy us a drink, kid.”
* * *
Hammer Head’s was packed wall to wall with cops. Not too unusual, as it was a favorite off-duty hangout. But this night it wasn’t filled with embittered patrolmen drinking to shake off the lingering images of whatever horrors they’d survived that shift. On this night it was a place of celebration.
The backslapping came fast and furious, and cops who wouldn’t have spared me a second glance the day before were lining up to be seen shaking my hand. All things considered, I’d much rather drink at Mickey the Finn’s, where at least I could pretend other people saw me as a regular person. The door opened and closed constantly, with a churn of people who wanted to be near the winning team. There’s nothing like a victory celebration to smooth over discontentment in the ranks.
I shot a look at Ajax, and he shrugged. Hey, if you can’t beat them . . .
The bartender had the taps opened up and foamy heads of beer were cresting and sliding down the sides of frosted mugs as he angled the rabbit ear antennae on top of the wall-mounted television. I let out a sigh and did my best to relax. Someone shoved a beer in my hand and we all quieted down as the evening news began.
The reception buzzed and went to static, but a quick slap by the bartender to the television’s side resolved the picture. The anchor was a human woman, as manicured and polished as any news personality could be. The most trusted name in local news, Channel 50’s Amear Sandersen, she of the whitest smile and most balanced, perfectly curled hair.
Amear pressed one hand to her ear. “I’m getting word of a breaking development.” She paused, then, “We’re going live to our field reporter. Janice, can you hear me?”
Another reporter appeared in a split-screen image. She was bundled against the cold, a heavy jacket and ear muffs that crimped her curls to her head. Wherever she was, it was far leeward.
“Amear, shocking news in the Haberdine murder case. I’m here at the St. Alban’s Guidepost, and with me is Guide Clemens.”
The split screen dropped and showed the field reporter standing next to an older woman in a guide’s frock and staff. She too was bundled against the cold.
The reporter continued, “Guide Clemens, you contacted the Channel 50 news team with shocking allegations. Can you repeat them for our viewers?”
The guide nodded and looked at the camera. “Timothy Flanagan was with our community the whole night of the murder. We held a prayer service for a local citizen who has fallen ill, and he was present for the entire service.”
“And did you tell the police this?”
“Of course, but they ignored me and arrested that poor man anyway.”
“These are serious allegations, Guide Clemens. Do you have any proof that Flanagan was with you that night?”
“We recorded the service so that we could play it for the members of our congregation who are homebound. You can hear Flanagan’s voice quite clearly. He was a reader during the service.”
“Do you have any idea why the police didn’t accept your story?”
“No,” said the guide. “The police were here to put a walker of the Path in chains, whether he was guilty or not.”
Around me the crowd’s silence shifted. What had been rapt attention turned to uncomfortable hush.
The broadcast switched back to Amear in the studio. Over her shoulder was a photo of me walking Flanagan into the Bunker, alongside an older shot, of me on the day I saved his life.
“The arrest of Mr. Flanagan raised eyebrows throughout the city,” she said, “and brought new attention to controversial police detect—”
Someone said, “Artie, turn that damn thing off, would ya?” and the television went dead, the image of my past replaced by a single white dot in the center of the screen, fading to black as the last of its energy dissipated.
The beer mug was suddenly heavy in my hand. I set it down on the bar top untouched.
I felt a brushing at my side. The sea of supporters parted, and someone grabbed my arm. It was Ajax. My partner.
His eyes were alight with rage. “This is bullshit.”
I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if he meant that it was a bullshit smear campaign or if it was bullshit that I’d dragged him down with me.
Ajax raised his voice. “Flanagan didn’t have an alibi. And sure as the Hells are off the Path, he wasn’t in a prayer service.”
Kravitz stood on a chair, and everyone looked at him.
“Ajax is right,” he told us. “This is a hurdle, but we’ve run into stuff like this before. The important thing is we got our man, and we’ll get through whatever issues come up.” He seemed calmer now that he’d had a few drinks. Even though he was wrong.
Because we hadn’t gotten our man. And the issues that failure raised were not the kind you just “get through.”
The pager in my coat buzzed. Then someone else’s did as well. I looked across the room and saw Detective Kravitz glance at his pocket. Within moments the only sound in the bar was the rumble of weighted plastic rods in plastic cases. We were being summoned back to the Bunker.
16
WE MET IN BRYYH’S OFFICE for privacy reasons. But there’s only so much privacy to be had when the rest of the floor can hear you screaming through closed doors. I was glad that she’d chosen that location over one of the interrogation rooms, though the tone she took with me was not much kinder than we’d have shown a suspect. I sat in one of the comfortable seats across from her desk and she bore down on me, the occasional finger popping up to stick in my face. If it wasn’t for the presence of Kravitz and Ajax, I think she may have strangled me. I know I was tempted to strangle her.
As it was, I kept my hands at my sides; white spittle flecked Bryyh’s lips when she asked again, “Did you talk to that guide personally?”
“No, one of the patrol interviewed her.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“Well, since I wasn’t there, I don’t know.” The words came out with more snarling sarcasm than I intended. I regretted it immediately. Bryyh had looked out for me my entire career, and I knew she’d taken grief for it. She’d always seen something of my mother in me.
Kravitz chimed in. “Don’t get your back up, Carter. We’re trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to find out if I buried evidence to hang a murder on someone that I’ve—” I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. “Someone I’ve got a grudge against.” Bryyh was one of my few friends on the force, but the proverbial shit had met the proverbial fan. And every detective in the Bunker had more than enough reason to throw me under the bus. Proverbial or otherwise.
> The stress was wearing on the captain, just like the rest of us. Kravitz ran his fingers through his beard continually. I could almost swear he was developing a bald spot on the side of his chin. Bryyh continued her interrogation.
“How much do you hate Flanagan?”
“I don’t—”
“Please. I didn’t ask if you hate him. I know you hate him,” she said. “Because I hate him, too.” Bryyh folded her glasses, fingers running over the frame. “I hate what he did, and the way he betrayed the badge. I hate that he got convicted of lesser charges, and that he got out early.” She slid her glasses back on. “So I know you hate him. What I asked you was, how much.”
“Not enough to end my career,” I said. “And I’m gonna point out—again—that charging him so soon was your idea.” I tore off my tie and shoved it into my pocket. The office was hot with all of us packed into it.
Kravitz stared at me. “We only brought him in because you pushed for it.”
Ajax spoke up, arguing the point, and Bryyh talked over him. My head ached from listening to all that circular thinking. I pressed a palm into the side of my head and out-shouted all of them.
“Dammit! I can’t prove the guide didn’t say what she’s claiming. But either she’s lying, and we can find out where Flanagan really was, or she’s telling the truth and—”
“—And we’re screwed,” said Bryyh. I couldn’t tell if she meant it as a question or a statement. I shook my head.
“No!” I swallowed, forcing down my angry screams. “If the guide’s telling the truth now, then she lied when we talked to her. That means there’s some kind of . . .” I grasped for a word that wouldn’t sound paranoid. “Hells, some kind of conspiracy.”